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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2014 


https://archive.org/details/christmasinartso01duke 


CHRISTMAS 

IN 

RT  AND  SON 


Uotoril!  in  tljis  tjalle 
Hake  wxi,  1  jrrage  goto  alle  1 
#it  tljat  t||l^  mag  to  mile. 

U//q  fine  Crimine, 


CHRISTMAS 


IN 


Art and  Song: 


Songs,  Carols  and  Descriptive  Poems, 


FESTIVAL  OF  CHRISTMAS. 

ILLUSTRATED 
FROM    DRAWINGS   BY  DISTINGUISHED  ARTISTS. 


NEW  YORK : 
The  Arundel  Printing  and  Publishing  Company. 

1879. 


A    COLLECTION  OF 


RELATING    TO  THE 


CHRISTMAS   IN  ART— 

"-AGE 

A  Christmas  Carol  {splendidly  illustrated^   15 

CHRISTMAS   IN  SONG— 

Christmas  in  the  Olden  Time  Sir  Walter  Scott   45 

Christmas  Comes  but  Once  a  Year  Thomas  Miller.   49 

Christmas  is  Come  Albert  Smith   53 

Christmas  Time  John  Clare   56 

Old  Christmas  J.  Bridgeman   62 

Christmas  Tide  Eliza  Cook   63 

Christmas  Minstrelsy  W.  Wordsworth   66 

Knighting  the  Loin  of  Beef   69 

Wassail       71 

The  Mahogany  Tree  W.  M.  Thackeray   73 

The  Approach  of  Christmas  John  Gay   74 

The  Mistletoe  Barry  Cornwall   75 

The  Christmas  Holly   Eliza  Cook   76 

The  Holly  Berry  Thomas  Miller.   77 

Holly  Song  William  Shakespeare   79 

Church-Decking  at  Christmas  W.  Words-worth   80 

OLD   ENGLISH  CAROLS— 

Boar's  Head  Carols   .  .'.   81, 

A  Carol  for  a  Wassail  Bowl   86 

Ceremony  for  Christmas  Eve   88 

"InExcelsis  Gloria"   90 


I  2 


Contents. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS- 
PAGE 

A  Hymn  on  the  Nativity  of  my  Saviour.  .  .Ben  Jonson   91 

For  Christmas  Day  Bishop  Hall   92 

Christmas  George  Ha  bat   94 

Christ's  Birth  in  an  Inn  Jeremy  Taylor   95 

Hymn  to  the  Nativity  John  Milton   96 

A  Christmas  Carol  S.  T.  Coleridge   106 

Christmas  Day  George  Wither.   108 

A  Christmas  Hymn  Alfred Dommett   no 

The  Nativity  W.  J.  Blezv   112 

Christmas  Carol  Mrs.  Hemans   113 

POEMS   ON  WINTER— 

I. — Shakespeare   114 

II. — Edmund  Spenser   116 

III.  — Thomson   116 

IV.  — Cowper   118 

V.— SOUTHEY   Il8 


The  Christmas  Tree  

A  Christmas  Carol  , 

Church  Bells  , 

A  Visit  from  St.  Nicholas.  . . , 
The  Death  of  the  Old  Year 


  119 

//.  W.  Longfellow   1 21 

John  Keble   123 

Clement  C.  Moore   124 

.Alfred  Tennyson   127 


SUBJECT. 

Frontispiece — Christmas  For  Ever . 


Title  Page —  Christmas  in  Art  and  Sons:. 


ARTIST. 

John  Gilbert. 
,  G.  Perkins...  . 


PAGF 
6 


CHRISTMAS  IN  ART — 

Sub-Title  Page  

"Christ  was  born  on  Christmas  Day"  

"The  Babe,  the  Son,  the  Holy  One  of  Mary' 

"He  is  born  to  set  us  free"  

"  The  God,  the  Lord,  by  all  adored  for  ever 

'•The  Babe,  the  Son,"  etc  

"Christian  men,  rejoice  and  sing"  

"The  God,  the  Lord,"  etc  

"Night  of  Sadness,"  etc  

"  Morn  of  gladness,  evermore  and  evermore  " 
"  Midnight  scarcely  passed  and  over 
11  Sing  out  with  bliss.  His  name  is  this 


John  A.  Hows   15 

  19 


21 

23 
25 
27 
29 
3i 
33 
35 
37 
39 


CHRISTMAS  IN  SONG — 

A  Christmas  Masque  

Christmas  Alms-giving  . . . 
Gathering  Mistletoe  


.John  Gilbert. . ...   45 

Birket  Foster.   47 

  43 


The  Baronial  Hall  J.  Gilbert  

A  Merry  Christmas.   Kenny  Meadows . 

The  Wassail  Birket  Foster.  . . 


=  4 


Illustrations. 


CHRISTMAS  IN  SONG— 

SUBJECT.  ARTIST. 

Bringing  in  Christmas  Harvey  

Christmas  Fireside  Birket  Foster. 

Christmas  Minstrelsy  

Knighting  the  Loin  of  Beef  J.  Gilbert . . . 

Wassail  Birket  Foster. 

The  Christmas  Bowl  

Gathering  Holly  

Hunting  the  Boar  


Bringing  in  the  Boar's  Head 
Bringing  in  the  Yule  Log... 


The  Madonna   Raphael  

The  Nativity  Riibens  

The  Shepherds  Harvey  

The  Adoration   "   

Christmas  Eve  and  Christmas  Day  From  the  German 

The  Owl  Birket  Foster. . 

Bringing  Home  Winter  Logs   " 

Winter  Church  Scene   " 

A  Winter  Scene  F.  IV.  Quarlly 

Christmas  Tree  F.  A.  Chapman 

St.  Nicholas  T.  A'ast  


Christ  urn*  $otn 

on 

Christmas  Stag." 


A  CAROL. 

WITH     ILLUSTRATIONS     BY     JOHN     A.  HOWS. 


\ 


"  Cjmst  to  torn  on  <%istmas  Jag." 


Music  by  REV-  THOMAS  HELMORE,  M  A. 
Maestoso. 


Words  by  REV.  J.  M.  NEALE,  M.  A. 


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CHRISTMAS  IN  SONG. 


Christmas  in  tbe  ©Ite  ®imt 


(SIR   WALTER  SCOTT.) 

Heap  on  more  wood  ! — the  wind  is  chill ; 

But  let  it  whistle  as  it  will, 

We'll  keep  our  Christmas  merry  still. 

Each  age  has  deemed  the  new-born  year 

The  fittest  time  for  festal  cheer. 

And  well  our  Christian  sires  of  old 

Loved  when  the  year  its  course  had  rolled, 

And  brought  blithe  Christmas  back  again, 

With  all  its  hospitable  train. 

Domestic  and  religious  rite 

Gave  honor  to  the  holy  night ; 

On  Christmas  eve  the  bells  were  rung ; 


46 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 


On  Christmas  eve  the  mass  was  sung ; 

That  only  night,  in  all  the  year, 

Saw  the  stoled  priest  the  chalice  rear. 

The  damsel  donned  her  kirtle  sheen  ; 

The  hall  was  dressed  with  holly  green ; 

Forth  to  the  wood  did  merry  men  go, 

To  gather  in  the  mistletoe  ; 

Then  opened  wide  the  baron's  hall 

To  vassal,  tenant,  serf,  and  all ; 

Power  laid  his  rod  of  rule  aside, 

And  ceremony  doffed  his  pride. 

The  heir,  with  roses  in  his  shoes, 

That  night  might  village  partner  choose. 

The  lord,  underogating,  share 

The  vulgar  game  of  "post  and  pair." 

All  hailed,  with  uncontrolled  delight, 

And  general  voice,  the  happy  night, 

That  to  the  cottage,  as  the  crown, 

Brought  tidings  of  salvation  down. 

The  fire,  with  well-dried  logs  supplied, 

Went  roaring  up  the  chimney  wide ; 

The  huge  hall-tables  oaken  face, 

Scrubbed  till  it  shone,  the  day  to  grace, 

Bore  then  upon  its  massive  board 

No  mark  to  part  the  squire  and  lord. 

Then  was  brought  in  the  lusty  brawn 

By  old  blue-coated  serving-man ; 

Then  the  grim  boar's  head  frowned  on  high, 

Crested  with  bays  and  rosemary. 

Well  can  the  green-garbed  ranger  tell 

How,  when,  and  where,  the  monster  fell ; 

What  dogs  before  his  death  he  tore, 

And  all  the  baiting  of  the  boar. 


Christmas  Alms-giving  in  the  Olden  Times. 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 

The  Wassail  round,  in  good  brown  bowls, 
Garnished  with  ribbons,  blithely  trowls. 
There  the  huge  sirloin  reeked;  hard  by 
Plum-porridge  stood,  and  Christmas  pie; 
Nor  failed  old  Scotland  to  produce, 
At  such  high  tide,  her  savory  goose. 
Then  came  the  merry  masquers  in, 
And  carols  roared  with  blithesome  din  ; 
If  unmelodious  was  the  song, 
It  was  a  hearty  note,  and  strong. 
Who  lists  may  in  their  mumming  see 
Traces  of  ancient  mystery  ; 
White  shirts  supplied  the  masquerade, 
And  smutted  cheeks  the  visors  made ; 
But,  O  !  what  masquers,  richly  dight, 
Gan  boast  of  bosoms  half  so  light ! 
England  was  merry  England,  when 
Old  Christmas  brought  his  sports  again. 
'Twas  Christmas  broached  the  mightiest  ale  ; 
'Twas  Christmas  told  the  merriest  tale ; 
A  Christmas  gambol  oft  could  cheer 
The  poor  man's  heart  through  half  the  year. 


Cjjtista  (fates  but  ®m  a  %m. 


(THOMAS  MILLER.) 

Those  Cliristmas  bells  so  sweetly  chime. 
As  on  the  day  when  first  they  rung 

So  merrily  in  the  olden  time, 

And  far  and  wide  their  music  Hung : 

Shaking  the  tall  gray  ivied  tower, 

With  all  their  deep  melodious  power : 
They  still  proclaim  to  every  ear, 
Old  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year. 

Then  he  came  singing  through  the  woods, 

And  plucked  the  holly  bright  and  green ; 

Pulled  here  and  there  the  ivy  buds ; 

Was  sometimes  hidden,  sometimes  seen- — 

Half-buried  'neath  the  mistletoe, 

His  long  beard  hung  with  flakes  of  snow ; 
And  still  he  ever  carolled  clear, 
Old  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year. 

He  merrily  came  in  days  of  old, 

When  roads  were  few,  and  ways  were  foul ; 
Now  staggered, — now  some  ditty  trolled, 

Now  drank  deep  from  his  wassail-bowl : 
His  holly  silvered  o'er  with  frost. 
Nor  ever  once  his  way  he  lost, 

For  reeling  here  and  reeling  there, 

Old  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year, 

The  hall  was  then  with  holly  crowned, 

'Twas  on  the  wild  deer's  antlers  placed ; 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 

It  hemmed  the  battered  armor  round, 
And  every  ancient  trophy  graced. 
It  decked  the  boars  head,  tusked  and  grim, 
The  wassail-bowl  wreathed  to  the  brim. 
A  summer-green  hung  everywhere, 
For  Christmas  came  but  once  a  yes,r„ 


His  jaded  steed  the  armed  knight 

Reined  up  before  the  abbey  gate ; 

By  all  assisted  to  alight, 

From  humble  monk,  to  abbot  great 

They  placed  his  lance  behind  the  door, 

His  armor  on  the  rush-strewn  floor ; 

And  then  brought  out  the  best  of  cheer, 
For  Christmas  came  but  once  a  year. 


Christmas  Comes  but  Once  a  Year. 

The  maiden  then,  in  quaint  attire, 

Loosed  from  her  head  the  silken  hood, 
And  danced  before  the  yule-clog  lire — 

The  crackling  monarch  of  the  wood ; 
Helmet  and  shield  flashed  back  the  blaze 
In  lines  of  light,  like  summer  rays, 

While  music  sounded  loud  and  clear ; 

For  Christmas  came  but  once  a  year. 

What  though  upon  his  hoary  head 

Have  fallen  many  a  winter's  snow, 

His  wreath  is  still  as  green  and  red 
As  'twas  a  thousand  years  ago. 

For  what  has  he  to  do  with  care  ? 

His  wassail-bowl  and  old  arm-chair 
Are  ever  standing  ready  there, 
For  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year. 

No  marvel  Christmas  lives  so  long ; 

He  never  knew  but  merry  hours ; 
His  nights  were  spent  with  mirth  and  song, 

In  happy  homes  and  princely  bowers  ; 
Was  greeted  both  by  serf  and  lord, 
And  seated  at  the  festal  board ; 

While  every  voice  cried,  "  Welcome  here,'' 

Old  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year. 

But  what  care  we  for  days  of  old, 

The  knights  whose  arms  have  turned  to  rust, 
Their  grim  boars'  heads,  and  pasties  cold, 

Their  castles  crumbled  into  dust  ? 
Never  did  sweeter  faces  go, 
Blushing  beneath  the  mistletoe, 


52 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 


Than  are  to-night  assembled  here, 
For  Christmas  still  comes  once  a  year. 

For  those  old  times  are  dead  and  gone, 

And  those  who  hailed  them  passed  away 

Yet  still  there  lingers  many  a  one, 

To  welcome  in  old  Christmas  Day, 

The  poor  will  many  a  care  forget, 

The  debtor  think  not  of  his  debt ; 

But,  as  they  each  enjoy  their  cheer, 
Wish  it  was  Christmas  all  the  year. 

And  still  around  these  good  old  times 

We  hang  like  friends  full  loath  to  part, 

We  listen  to  the  simple  rhymes 

Which  somehow  sink  into  the  heart, 

"  Half  musical,  half  melancholy," 

Like  childish  smiles  that  still  are  holy  ; 
A  masquer's  face  dimmed  with  a  tear, 
For  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year. 

The  bells  which  usher  in  that  morn, 

Have  ever  drawn  my  mind  away 
To  Bethlehem,  where  Christ  was  born, 

And  the  low  stable  where  He  lay, 
In  which  the  large-eyed  oxen  fed ; 
To  Mary  bowing  low  her  head, 

And  looking  down  with  love  sincere ; 

Such  thoughts  bring  Christmas  once  a  year, 

At  early  day  the  youthful  voice, 

Heard  singing  on  from  door  to  door, 
Makes  the  responding  heart  rejoice, 


Christmas  is  Come. 

To  know  the  children  of  the  poor 

For  once  are  happy  all  day  long ; 

We  smile  and  listen  to  the  song, 

The  burden  still  remote  or  near, 

"Old  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year.5' 

Upon  a  gayer,  happier  scene, 

Never  did  holly  berries  peer, 
Or  ivy  throw  its  trailing  green, 

On  brighter  forms  than  there  are  here, 
N'or  Christmas  in  his  old  arm-chair 
Smile  upon  lips  and  brows  more  fair: 

Then  let  us  sing  amid  our  cheer, 

Old  Christmas  still  comes  once  a  year. 


<%i$to  is  Come. 

(ALBERT  SMITH.) 

The  old  north  breeze  through  the  skeleton  trees 

Is  chanting  the  year  out  drearily ; 
But  loud  let  it  blow,  for  at  home  we  know 

That  the  dry  logs  crackle  cheerily  ; 
And  the  frozen  ground  is  in  fetters  bound ; 

But  pile  up  the  wood,  we  can  burn  it ; 
For  Christmas  is  come,  and  in  every  home 

To  summer  our  hearts  can  turn  it 
Wassail !  wassail ! 
Here's  happiness  to  all,  abroad  and  at  home ; 

Wassail !  wassail ! 
Here's  happiness  to  all,  for  Christmas  is  come. 


Christmas  is  Come. 


And  far  and  near,  o'er  landscape  drear, 

From  casements  brightly  streaming, 
With  cheerful  glow  on  the  fallen  snow 

The  ruddy  light  is  gleaming ; 
The  wind  may  shont  as  it  likes  without, 

It  may  bluster,  but  never  can  harm  us ; 
For  a  merrier  din  shall  resound  within, 

And  our  Christmas  feelings  warm  us. 
Wassail !  wassail ! 
Here's  happiness  to  all,  abroad  and  at  home ; 

Wassail !  wassail ! 
Here's  happiness  to  all,  for  Christmas  is  come. 

The  flowers  are  torpid  in  their  beds, 

Till  spring's  first  sunbeam  sleeping ; 

Not  e'en  the  snowdrops'  pointed  heads 
Along  the  earth  are  peeping ; 

But  groves  remain  on  each  frosted  pane 

Of  feathery  trees  and  bowers ; 

And  fairer  far  we'll  maintain  they  are 
< 

Than  summer's  gaudiest  flowers. 

Wassail !  wassail ! 
Here's  happiness  to  all,  abroad  and  at  home ; 

Wassail !  wassail ! 
Here's  happiness  to  all,  for  Christmas  is  come. 

Let  us  drink  to  those  eyes  we  most  dearly  prize, 
We  can  show  how  we  love  them  after ; 

The  fire  blaze  cleaves  to  the  bright  holly  leaves, 
And  the  mistletoe  hangs  from  the  rafter ; 

We  care  not  for  fruit,  whilst  we  here  can  see 
Their  scarlet  and  pearly  berries ; 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 

For  the  girls'  soft  cheeks  shall  our  peaches  be, 
And  their  pouting  lips  our  cherries. 

Wassail !  wassail ! 
Here's  happiness  to  all,  abroad  and  at  home ; 

Wassail !  wassail ! 
Here's  happiness  to  all,  for  Christmas  is  coma 


ftljnstntas  time, 

(JOHN  CLARE.) 

Glad  Christmas  comes,  and  every  hearth 

Makes  room  to  give  him  welcome  now, 
E;en  want  will  dry  its  tears  in  mirth, 

And  crown  him  with  a  holly  bough ; 
Though  tramping  'neath  a  winter  sky, 

O'er  snowy  paths  and  rimy  stiles, 
The  housewife  sets  her  spinning  by, 

To  bid  him  welcome  with  her  smiles. 

Each  house  is  swept  the  day  before, 

And  windows  stuck  with  evergreens ; 
The  snow  is  besomed  from  the  door, 

And  comfort  crowns  the  cottage  scenes. 
Gilt  holly  with  its  thorny  pricks, 

And  yew,  and  box,  with  berries  small, 
These  deck  the  unused  candlesticks, 

And  pictures  hanging  by  the  wall. 

Neighbors  resume  their  annual  cheer, 
Wishing,  with  smiles  and  spirits  high, 


C Jiristmas  Time, 


Glad  Christmas  and  a  happy  year, 

To  every  morning  passer-by  ; 
Milkmaids  their  Christmas  journeys  go, 


Accompanied  by  a  favored  swain  ; 
And  children  pace  the  crumpling  snow, 
To  taste  their  granny's  cake  again. 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 


The  shepherd  now  no  more  afraid,  • 

Since  custom  doth  the  chance  bestow, 
Starts  up  to  kiss  the  giggling  maid, 

Beneath  the  branch  of  mistletoe, 
That  'neath  each  cottage  beam  is  seen, 

With  pearl-like  berries  shining  gay ; 
The  shadow  still  of  what  hath  been, 

Which  fashion  yearly  fades  away. 

The  singing  waits — a  merry  throng, 

At  early  morn,  with  simple  skill, 
Yet  imitate  the  angel's  song, 

And  chant  their  Christmas  ditty  still ; 
And,  'mid  the  storm  that  dies  and  swells 

By  fits,  in  hummings  softly  steals 
The  music  of  the  village  bells, 

Ringing  around  their  merry  peals. 

When  this  is  past,  a  merry  crew, 

Bedecked  in  masks  and  ribbons  gajr, 
The  Morris  Dance,  their  sports  renew, 

And  act  their  winter  evening  play. 
The  clown  turned  king,  for  penny  praise, 

Storms  with  the  actor's  strut  and  swell, 
And  harlequin,  a  laugh  to  raise, 

Wears  his  hunch-back  and  tinkling  bell. 

And  oft  for  pence  and  spicy  ale, 

With  winter  nosegays  pinned  before, 

The  wassail-singer  tells  her  tale, 

And  drawls  her  Christmas  carols  o'er. 

While  'prentice  boy,  with  ruddy  face, 
And  rime-bepowdered  dancing  locks, 


Christmas  Time. 


From  door  to  door,  with  happy  face, 

Runs  round  to  claim  his  "Christmas-box." 

The  block  upon  the  fire  is  put, 

To  sanction  custom's  old  desires, 
And  many  a  fagot's  bands  are  cut, 

For  the  old  farmer's  Christmas  fires  , 
Where  loud-tongued  gladness  joins  the  throng, 

And  Winter  meets  the  warmth  of  May, 
Till,  feeling  soon  the  heat  too  strong, 

He  rubs  his  shins  and  draws  away. 

While  snows  the  window-panes  bedim, 

The  fire  curls  up  a  sunny  charm, 
Where,  creaming  o'er  the  pitcher's  rim, 

The  flowering  ale  is  set  to  warm. 
Mirth,  full  of  joy  as  summer  bees, 

Sits  there  its  pleasures  to  impart, 
And  children,  'tween  their  parents'  knees, 

Sing  scraps  of  carols  off  by  heart. 

And  some,  to  view  the  winter  weathers, 

Climb  up  the  window  seat  with  glee, 
Likening  the  snow  to  falling  feathers, 

In  fancy's  infant  ecstacy ; 
Laughing,  with  superstitious  love, 

O'er  visions  wild  that  youth  supplies, 
Of  people  pulling  geese  above. 

And  keeping  Christmas  in  the  skies. 

As  though  the  homestead  trees  were  drest, 

In  lieu  of  snow,  with  dancing  leaves, 
As  though  the  sun-dried  martin's  nest, 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 


Instead  of  ic'cles  hung  the  eaves ; 
The  children  hail  the  happy  day — 

As  if  the  snow  were  April's  grass, 
And  pleased,  as  'neath  the  warmth  of  May, 

Sport  o'er  the  water  froze  to  glass. 

Thou  day  of  happy  sound  and  mirth 

That  long  with  childish  memory  stays, 
How  blest  around  the  cottage  hearth, 

I  met  thee  in  my  younger  days, 
Harping,  with  rapture's  dreaming  joys, 

On  presents  which  thy  coming  found, 
The  welcome  sight  of  little  toys, 

The  Christmas  gift  of  cousins  round. 

About  the  glowing  hearth  at  night, 

The  harmless  laugh  and  winter  tale 
Go  round ;  while  parting  friends  delight 

To  toast  each  other  o'er  their  ale. 
The  cotter  oft  with  quiet  zeal 

Will,  musing,  o'er  his  Bible  lean ; 
While,  in  the  dark  the  lovers  steal, 

To  kiss  and  toy  behind  the  screen. 

Old  customs  !  O  !  I  love  the  sound, 

However  simple  they  may  be ; 
Whate'er  with  time  hath  sanction  found, 

Is  welcome,  and  is  dear  to  me ; 
Pride  grows  above  simplicity, 

And  spurns  them  from  her  haughty  mind 
And  soon  the  poet's  song  will  be 

The  only  refuge  they  can  find. 


Christmas  171  Art  &  Sojio. 


<©Ii  (Kftristatas, 

(J.   BRIDGE  MAN.) 

Once  more  the  rapid,  fleeting  year 

Has  brought  old  Christmas  to  the  door ; 
Come,  let  us  treat  him  with  such  cheer. 

As  folks  were  wont  in  days  of  yore, 
When  burgher  grave,  and  belted  knight, 

And  cottage  maid,  and  lady  fair, 
Obeyed  the  old  familiar  sprite, 

And,  at  his  bidding,  banished  Care — 
That  sullen,  surly,  melancholy  wight. 

Let's  hang  from  beams  all  black  with  time, 

The  mistletoe's  insidious  bough, 
'Neath  which,  as  little  birds  with  lime, 

Young  girls  are  snared,  "they  know  not  how 
The  horrid  thing — they  never  thought 

It  half  so  near — for  if  they  had, 
'Tis  certain  they  had  not  been  caught — 

On  that  rely — it  was  too  bad, 
And  not  at  all  behaving  as  one  ought." 

Upon  the  hearth  pile  up  the  fire, 

And,  that  it  may  burn  clear  and  bright, 
Cast  in  it  every  base  desire, 

All  envy,  hatred,  vengeance,  spite ; 
Believe  me,  the  event  will  show 

By  acting  in  this  way  you'll  gain — 
For  you  will  feel  a  genial  glow 

Dance  through  each  gladly-swelling  vein, 
And  onwards  to  your  very  heart's  core  go. 


C hristmas  Tide . 


Bring,  too,  the  sparkling  wassail-bowl, 

That  jolly  Christmas  holds  so  dear, 
And  if  you'd  have  it  warm  your  soul — 

The  mind  as  well  as  body  cheer — 
Amid  the  wine  and  spirit  pour 

The  blessings  from  some  humble  roof; 
A  little  charity  is  sure 

To  call  them  forth  ;  in  sober  truth, 
They'll  give  the  draught  one  matchless  flavor  mora 

And  you,  fair  Sovereign  of  this  isle, 

Who  love  to  deck  the  Christmas  tree, 
So  that  the  massy,  regal  pile 

Eesound  with  mirth  and  jollity, 
Remember  that  the  stem  with  new 

Strength  thrives,  if  pruned  with  careful  hand ; 
Then  trim  your  Christmas  sapling,  too, 

And  to  the  poor  throughout  the  land 
Send  of  the  shoots  thus  lopped  away  a  few. 


Christmas  f  fte. 

(ELIZA   COOK  ) 

When  the  merry  spring-time  weaves 
Its  peeping  bloom  and  dewy  leaves ; 
When  the  primrose  opes  its  eye, 
And  the  young  moth  nutters  by ; 
When  the  plaintive  turtle-dove 
Pours  its  notes  of  peace  and  love ; 
And  the  clear  sun  flings  its  glory  bright  and  wide — 


Christmas  in  Art  Cf  Sonj. 

Yet  my  soul  will  own 
More  joy  in  winter's  frown, 
And  wake  with  warmer  flash  at  Christmas  tide. 

The  summer  beams  may  shine 

On  the  rich  and  curling  vine, 

And  the  noontide  rays  light  up 

The  tulip's  dazzling  cup  ; 

But  the  pearly  mistletoe, 

And  the  holly  berries'  glow, 
Are  not  even  by  the  boasted  rose  outvied ; 

For  the  happy  hearths  beneath 

The  green  and  coral  wreath 
Love  the  garlands  that  are  twined  at  Christmas  tide. 

Let  the  autumn  days  produce 

Yellow  com  and  purple  juice, 

And  Nature's  feast  be  spread 

In  the  fruitage  ripe  and  red ; 

'Tis  grateful  to  behold 

Gushing  grapes,  and  fields  of  gold, 
When  cheeks  are  browned,  and  red  lips  deeper  dyed ; 

But  give,  oh  !  give  to  me, 

The  winter  night  of  glee, 
The  mirth  and  plenty  seen  at  Christmas  tide. 

The  northern  gust  may  howl, 
The  rolling  storm-cloud  scowl, 
King  Frost  may  make  a  slave 
Of  the  river's  rapid  wave  ; 
The  snow-drift  choke  the  path, 
Or  the  hail-shower  spend  its  wrath, 


C hristmas  Tide. 


But  the  sternest  blast  right  bravely  is  defied, 

While  limbs  and  spirits  bound 

To  the  merry  minstrel  sound, 
And  social  wood-fires  blaze  at  Christmas  tide. 

The  song,  the  laugh,  the  shout, 

Shall  mock  the  storm  without ; 

And  the  sparkling  wine-foam  rise 

'Neath  still  more  sparkling  eyes ; 

The  forms  that  scarcely  meet 

Then  hand  to  hand  shall  greet, 
And  soul  pledge  soul  that  leagues  too  long  divide. 

Mirth,  friendship,  love,  and  light, 

Shall  crown  the  winter  night, 
And  every  glad  voice  welcome  Christmas  tide, 

But  while  joy's  echo  falls 

In  gay  and  plenteous  halls, 

Let  the  poor  and  lowly  share 

The  warmth,  the  sports,  the  fare ; 

For  the  one  of  humble  lot 

Must  not  shiver  in  his  cot, 
But  claim  a  bounteous  meed  from  wealth  and  prida 

Shed  kindly  blessings  round, 

Till  no  aching  heart  be  found, 
And  then  all  hail  to  merry  Christmas  tide  I 


Christmas  Ptetaeh^. 


ADDRESSED  TO  THE  REV.   DR.  WORDSWORT 

(WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH.) 

The  Minstrels  played  their  Christmas  tune 
To-night  beneath  my  cottage  eaves  ; 

While,  smitten  by  a  lofty  moon, 

The  encircling  laurels,  thick  with  leaves, 

Gave  back  a  rich  and  dazzling  sheen, 

That  overpowered  their  natural  green. 


Christmas  Minstrelsy. 

Through  hill  and  valley  every  breeze 
Had  sunk  to  rest  with  folded  wings : 

Keen  was  the  air,  but  could  not  freeze, 
Nor  check  the  music  of  the  strings ; 

So  stout  and  hardy  were  the  band 

That  scraped  the  chords  with  strenuous  hand ! 

And  who  but  listened  ? — till  was  paid 
Eespect  to  every  inmate's  claim : 

The  greeting  given,  the  music  played, 
In  honor  of  each  household  name, 

Duly  pronounced  with  lusty  call, 

And  "  merry  Christmas"  wished  to  all ! 

O  brother !  I  revere  the  choice 

That  took  thee  from  thy  native  hills ; 

And  it  is  given  thee  to  rejoice : 
Though  public  care  full  often  tills 

(Heaven  only  witness  of  the  toil) 

A  barren  and  ungrateful  soil. 

Yet,  would  that  thou,  with  me  and  mine, 
Hadst  heard  this  never-failing  rite  ; 

And  seen  on  other  faces  shine 
A  true  revival  of  the  light, 

Which  Nature  and  these  rustic  powers, 

In  simple  childhood,  spread  through  ours ! 

For  pleasure  hath  not  ceased  to  wait 
On  these  expected  annual  rounds ; 

Whether  the  rich  man's  sumptuous  gate 
Call  forth  the  unelaborate  sounds, 

Or  they  are  offered  at  the  door 

That  guards  the  lowliest  of  the  poor. 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 

How  touching,  when,  at  midnight,  sweep 
Snow-muffled  winds,  and  all  is  dark, 

To  hear — and  sink  again  to  sleep  ! 
Or,  at  an  earlier  call,  to  mark, 

By  blazing  fire,  the  still  suspense 

Of  self-complacent  innocence ! 

The  mutual  nod, — the  grave  disguise 
Of  hearts  with  gladness  brimming  o'er ; 

And  some  unbidden  tears  that  rise 

For  names  once  heard,  and  heard  no  more ; 

Tears  brightened  by  the  serenade 

For  infant  in  the  cradle  laid. 

Ah  !  not  for  emerald  fields  alone, 

With  ambient  streams  more  pure  and  bright 
Than  fabled  Cytherea's  zone 

Glittering  before  the  Thunderer's  sight, 
Is  to  my  heart  of  hearts  endeared 
The  ground  where  we  were  born  and  reared  I 

Hail,  ancient  Manners !  sure  defence, 

Where  they  survive,  of  wholesome  laws ; 

Eemnants  of  love  whose  modest  sense 
Thus  into  narrow  room  withdraws ; 

Hail,  Usages  of  pristine  mould, 

And  ye  that  guard  them,  Mountains  old ! 

Bear  with  me,  brother !  quench  the  thought 
That  slights  this  passion,  or  condemns ; 

If  thee  fond  Fancy  ever  brought 

From  the  proud  margin  of  the  Thames, 

And  Lambeth's  venerable  towers, 

To  humbler  streams  and  greener  bowers. 


Knighting  the  Loin  of  Beef. 


Yes,  they  can  make,  who  fail  to  find, 
Short  leisure  even  in  busiest  days, 

Moments  to  cast  a  look  behind. 
And  profit  by  those  kindly  rays 

That  through  the  clouds  do  sometimes  steal, 

And  all  the  far-off  past  reveal. 

Hence,  Avhile  the  imperial  City's  din 
Beats  frequent  on  thy  satiate  ear, 

A  pleased  attention  I  may  win 
To  agitations  less  severe, 

That  neither  overwhelm  nor  cloy, 

But  fill  the  hollow  vale  with  joy ! 


The  Second  Charles  of  England 
Rode  forth  one  Christmas  tide, 

To  hunt  a  gallant  stag  of  ten, 
Of  Chingford  woods  the  pride. 

The  wind  blew  keen,  the  snow  fell  fast, 

And  made  for  earth  a  pall, 
As  tired  steeds  and  wearied  men 

Returned  to  Friday  Hall. 

The  blazing  logs,  piled  on  the  dogs, 

Were  pleasant  to  behold  ! 
And  grateful  was  the  steaming  feast 

To  hungry  men — and  cold. 


Wassail. 


With  right  good-will  all  took  their  fill, 

And  soon  each  found  relief ; 
Whilst  Charles  his  royal  trencher  piled 

From  one  huge  loin  of  beef. 

Quoth  Charles,  "  Odd's  fish !  a  noble  dish ! 

Aye,  noble  made  by  me  ! 
By  kingly  right,  I  dub  thee  knight — 

Sir  Loin  henceforward  be  !" 

And  never  was  a  royal  jest 
Eeceived  with  such  "  acclaim :" 

And  never  knight  than  good  Sir  Loin 
More  worthy  of  the  name. 


Wkmil 

Wassail  !  wassail !    Ye  merry  men,  hail, 

Who  brightened  the  days  of  old ; 
What  brave  conceits,  and  humorsome  feats, 

Are  sung  of  our  fathers  bold ! 
From  morning  chime,  unto  vesper  time, 

They  revelled  in  careless  glee, 
And  danced  at  night  with  spirits  as  light 

As  the  notes  of  their  minstrelsy. 

Wassail !  wassail !    At  the  knights  regale 
'Twas  the  signal  for  deep  carouse, 

Nor  there  alone,  for  the  joyous  tone 
Shook  many  a  priestly  house ; 


72 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 


The  monks  forgot  their  bachelor's  lot, 

Surrounded  by  goodly  cheer, 
And  raised  the  cup,  in  its  brim  full  up, 

To  the  utter  contempt  of  care. 

Wassail !  wassail !  cried  the  yeoman  hale, 

As  he  shouldered  his  quarter-staff, 
And  homeward  rode  where  the  spiced  ale  stood 

Awaiting  his  hearty  quaff ; 
The  cot  meanwhile,  lit  up  by  the  smile 

Of  a  frank,  good-hearted  mirth, 
And  free  to  all  who  might  chance  to  call, 

Was  the  happiest  place  on  earth  ! 


The  Mahogany  Tree. 


%  1 

(W.  M. 

THACKERA  Y.) 

Christmas  is  here ; 

Here  let  us  sport, 

Winds  whistle  shrill, 

Boys,  as  we  sit ; 

Icy  and  chill : 

Laughter  and  wit 

Little  care  we. 

Flashing  so  free. 

Little  we  fear 

Life  is  but  short — 

Weather  without, 

When  we  are  gone, 

Sheltered  about 

Let  them  sing  on, 

The  Mahogany  Tree. , 

Round  the  old  tree. 

Commoner  greens, 

Evenings  we  knew, 

Ivy  and  oaks, 

Happy  as  this ; 

Poets,  in  jokes, 

Faces  we  miss, 

Sing,  do  you  see : 

Pleasant  to  see. 

Good  fellows'  shins 

Kind  hearts  and  true, 

Here,  boys,  are  found, 

Gentle  and  just, 

Twisting  around 

Peace  to  your  dust ! 

The  Mahogany  Tree. 

We  sing  round  the  tree 

Once  on  the  boughs 

Care,  like  a  dun, 

Birds  of  rare  plume 

Lurks  at  the  gate : 

Sang,  in  its  bloom  : 

Let  the  dog  wait ; 

Night  birds  are  we ; 

Happy  we'll  be ! 

Here  we  carouse, 

Drink  every  one ; 

Singing,  like  them, 

Pile  up  the  coals, 

Perched  round  the  stem 

Fill  the  red  bowls, 

Of  the  jolly  old  tree. 

Round  the  old  tree ! 

74 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 


Drain  we  the  cup. —  Sorrows,  begone  ! 

Friend,  art  afraid  ?  Life  and  its  ills, 

Spirits  are  laid  Duns  and  their  bills, 

In  the  Red  Sea.  Bid  we  to  flee. 

Mantle  it  up ;  Come  with  the  dawn 

Empty  it  yet ;  Blue-devil  sprite, 

Let  us  forget,  Leave  us  to-night, 

Round  the  old  tree.  Round  the  old  tree. 


%\t  ^protl]  0f  Cjrristps. 

(JOHN  GAY.) 

When  rosemary,  and  bays,  the  poets'  crown, 

Are  bawled,  in  frequent  cries,  through  all  the  town  ; 

Then  judge  the  festival  of  Christmas  near, — 

Christmas,  the  joyous  period  of  the  year. 

]STow  with  bright  holly  all  your  temples  strew, 

With  laurel  green,  and  sacred  mistletoe ; 

Now,  heaven-born  Charity  !  thy  blessings  shed  ; 

Bid  meagre  Want  uprear  her  sickly  head ; 


The  Mistletoe. 


Bid  shivering  limbs  be  warm ;  let  Plenty's  bowl 
In  humble  roofs  make  glad  the  needy  soul ! 
See,  see !  the  heaven-born  maid  her  blessings  shed ; 
Lo !  meagre  Want  uprears  her  sickly  head ; 
Clothed  are  the  naked,  and  the  needy  glad, 
While  selfish  Avarice  alone  is  sad. 


(BARRY  CORNWALL.) 

When  winter  nights  grow  long, 
And  winds  without  blow  cold, 
We  sit  in  a  ring  round  the  warm  wood  fire, 

And  listen  to  stories  old ! 
And  we  try  to  look  grave  (as  maids  should  be), 
When  the  men  bring  in  boughs  of  the  laurel -tree. 
O,  the  laurel,  the  evergreen  tree  ! 
The  poets  have  laurels,  and  why  not  we  ? 

How  pleasant,  when  night  falls  down, 

And  hides  the  wintry  sun, 
To  see  them  come  in  to  the  blazing  fire, 

And  know  that  their  work  is  done ; 
Whilst  many  bring  in,  with  a  laugh  or  rhyme, 
Green  branches  of  holly  for  Christmas  time. 
O,  the  holly,  the  bright  green  holly ! 
It  tells  (like  a  tongue)  that  the  times  are  jolly ! 

Sometimes — (in  our  grave  house 
Observe,  this  happeneth  not ;) 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 

But  at  times  the  evergreen  laurel  boughs, 

And  the  holly  are  all  forgot, 
And  then — what  then  ?  why,  the  men  laugh  low, 
And  hang  up  a  branch  of — the  mistletoe  ! 

Oh,  brave  is  the  laurel !  and  brave  is  the  holly. 

But  the  mistletoe  banisheth  melancholy ! 

Ah,  nobody  knows,  nor  ever  shall  know, 

What  is  done  under  the  mistletoe. 


(ELIZA  COOK.) 

The  holly !  the  holly  !  oh,  twine  it  with  bay — 

Come  give  the  holly  a  song ; 
For  it  helps  to  drive  stern  winter  away, 

With  his  garment  so  sombre  and  long ; 
It  peeps  through  the  trees  with  its  berries  of  red, 

And  its  leaves  of  burnished  green, 
When  the  flowers  and  fruits  have  long  been  dead, 

And  not  even  the  daisy  is  seen. 
Then  sing  to  the  holly,  the  Christmas  holly, 

That  hangs  over  peasant  and  king ; 
While  we  laugh  and  carouse  'neath  its  glittering  boughs, 

To  the  Christmas  holly  we'll  sing. 

The  gale  may  whistle,  the  frost  may  come 

To  fetter  the  gurgling  rill ; 
The  woods  may  be  bare,  and  warblers  dumb, 

But  holly  is  beautiful  still. 
In  the  revel  and  light  of  princely  halls 

The  bright  holly  branch  is  found ; 


The  Holly  Berry, 


And  its  shadow  falls  on  the  lowliest  walls, 

While  the  brimming  horn  goes  round. 
Then  drink  to  the  holly,  &c. 

The  ivy  lives  long,  but  its  home  must  be 

Where  graves  and  ruins  are  spread  ; 
There's  beauty  about  the  cypress  tree, 

But  it  flourishes  near  the  dead ; 
The  laurel  the  warrior's  brow  may  wreathe, 

But  it  tells  of  tears  and  blood ; 
I  sing  the  holly,  and  who  can  breathe 

Aught  of  that  that  is  not  good  ? 
Then  sing  to  the  holly,  &c. 


%\t  lolls  Sorsf. 

(THOMAS  MILLER.) 

Gone  are  the  summer  hours, 
The  birds  have  left  their  bowers  ; 
While  the  holly  true  retains  his  hue, 
Nor  changes  like  the  flowers. 
On  his  armed  leaf  reposes 
The  berries  tinged  like  roses  ; 
For  he's  ever  seen  in  red  or  green, 
While  grim  old  Winter  dozes. 

Then  drink  to  the  holly  berry, 
With  hey  down,  hey  down  derry ; 
The  mistletoe  we'll  pledge  also, 
And  at  Christmas  all  be  merry. 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 


Above  all  cold  affections, 

Like  pleasant  recollections, 
The  ivy  grows,  and  a  deep  veil  throws 

O'er  all  Time's  imperfections ; 

The  mould'ring  column  screening, 

The  naked  gateway  greening, 
While  the  falling  shrine  it  doth  entwine 

Like  a  heart  that's  homeward  leaning. 
Then  drink,  &c. 

We  read  in  ancient  story, 

How  the  Druids  in  their  glory 
Marched  forth  of  old,  with  hooks  of  gold, 

To  forests  dim  and  hoary ; 

The  giant  oak  ascended, 

Then  from  its  branches  rended 
The  mistletoe,  long  long  ago, 

By  maidens  fair  attended. 
Then  drink,  &c. 

Each  thorpe  and  grange  surrounding, 

The  waits  to  music  bounding, 
Aroused  the  cook,  that  her  fire  might  smoke 

Ere  the  early  cock  was  sounding. 

For  all  the  land  was  merry, 

And  rang  with  "  Hey  down  deny," 
While  in  castle  hall,  and  cottage  small, 

There  glittered  the  holly  berry. 
Then  drink,  &c. 


Holly  Song. 


foils  Song. 

(WILLIAM  SHAKSPEaRE.) 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 

As  man's  ingratitude ; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 


Heigh,  ho !  sing  heigh,  ho !  unto  the  green  holly : 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly 

Then,  heigli,  ho!  the  holly! 

This  life  is  most  jolly. 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 

Thou  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 
As  benefits  forgot : 

Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 

Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 
As  friend  remembered  not. 
Heigh,  ho  !  sing  heigh,  ho  !  unto  the  green  holly : 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly : 

Then,  heigh,  ho !  the  holly ! 

This  life  is  most  jolly. 


<%r^-f  ediing  at  (Kljristmas. 

(WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH.) 

"Would  that  our  scrupulous  sires  had  dared  to  leave 
Less  scanty  measure  of  those  graceful  rites 
And  usages,  whose  due  return  invites 

A  stir  of  mind  too  natural  to  deceive ; 

Giving  the  memory  help  when  she  could  weave 

A  crown  for  Hope ! — I  dread  the  boasted  lights 
That  all  too  often  are  but  fiery  blights, 

Killing  the  bud  o'er  which  in  vain  we  grieve. 

Go,  seek,  when  Christmas  snows  discomfort  bring, 
The  counter  Spirit  found  in  some  gay  church 
Green  with  fresh  holly,  eveiy  pew  a  perch 

In  which  the  linnet  or  the  thrush  might  sing, 

Merry  and  loud,  and  safe  from  prying  search, 

Strains  offered  only  to  the  genial  spring. 


Old  English  Carolse 


§0ar's  fealr  Carols, 
i. 

Tidings  I  bring  you  for  to  tell 
What  in  wild  forest  me  befell, 
When  I  in  with  a  wild  beast  fell, 
With  a  boar  so  biyme.* 

A  boar  so  bryme  that  me  pursued, 
Me  for  to  kill  so  sharply  moved, — 
That  brymly  beast,  so  cruel  and  rude, 

There  tamed  I  him, 
And  reft  from  him  both  life  and  limb. 

*  Fierce. 


Christmas  hi  Art  &  Song. 

Truly,  to  show  you  this  is  true, 
His  head  I  with  my  sword  did  hew, 
To  make  this  day  new  mirth  for  you — 

Now  eat  thereof  anon. 
Eat,  and  much  good  do  it  you ; 
Take  you  bread  and  mustard  thereto. 
Joy  with  me  that  this  I  have  done, 
I  pray  you  be  glad  every  one, 
And  all  rejoice  as  one. 

II. 

Nowel,  Nowel,  Nowel,  Nowel, 
Tidings  good  I  think  to  tell. 

The  boar's  head,  that  we  bring  here, 
Betokeneth  a  prince  without  peer 
Is  born  to-day  to  buy  us  dear, 

NoweL 

The  boar  he  is  a  sovereign  beast, 
And  acceptable  at  every  feast ; 
So  might  this  lord  be  to  greatest  and  least 

Nowel. 

This  boar's  head  we  bring  with  song, 
In  worship  of  Him  that  thus  sprung 
From  a  virgin  to  redress  all  wrong ; 

Nowel. 

in. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  meat 
Of  a  boar's  head  ye  shall  eat, 
And  in  the  mustard  ye  shall  whet ; 
And  ye  shall  sing  before  ye  go. 


Boars  Head  Carols. 


Welcome  be  ye  that  are  here, 
Ye  shall  all  have  right  good  cheer, 
And  also  a  right  good  fare ; 
And  ye  shall  sing  before  ye  go. 

Welcome  be  ye  every  one, 
For  ye  shall  sing  all  right  anon ; 
Hey  !  you  sure  that  ye  have  done  ? 
And  ye  shall  sing  before  ye  go. 


IV. 


Hey!  Hey!  Hey!  Hey! 
The  boar's  head  is  armed  gay. 

The  boar's  head  in  hand  I  bring. 
With  garlands  gay  encircling,* 
I  pray  you  all  with  me  to  sing, 
With  Hey! 

Lords,  knights,  and  squires, 
Parsons,  priests,  and  vicars, 
The  boar's  head  is  the  first  mess,f 
With  Hey ! 

The  boar's  head,  as  I  now  say, 
Takes  its  leave  and  goes  away, 
Goeth  after  the  Twelfth  day, 
With  Hey ! 

Then  comes  in  the  second  course  with  great  pride, 
The  cranes,  the  herons,  the  bitterns,  by  their  side, 


*  11  Porttorying  "  in  the  original — a  word  riot  explained  in  any  glossary, 
f  Thatie,  "the  first  dish." 


84 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 


The  partridges,  the  plovers,  the  woodcocks,  and  the  snipe, 
Larks  in  hot  show,  for  the  ladies  to  pick, 
Grood  drink  also,  luscious  and  fine, 
Blood  of  Allemaine,  romnay,  and  wine, 

With  Hey! 

Good  brewed  ale  and  wine,  I  dare  well  say, 

The  boar's  head  with  mustard  armed  so  gay, 

Furmity  for  pottage,  and  venison  fine, 

And  the  umbles  of  the  doe  and  all  that  ever  comes  in. 

Capons  well  baked,  with  knuckles  of  the  roe, 

Raisons  and  currants,  and  other  spices  too, 

With  Hey ! 


Y. 

Ccvput  Ajpri  defero 
Reddens  laudes  Domino. 

The  boar's  head  in  hand  bring  I, 
With  garlands  gay  and  rosemary ; 
I  pray  you  all  sing  merrily, 
Qui  estis  in  convivio. 

The  boars  head,  I  understand, 
Is  the  chief  service  in  this  land ; 
Look  wherever  it  be  found, 
Servite  cum  cantico. 

Be  glad,  lords,  both  more  or  less, 

For  this  hath  ordained  our  steward 

To  cheer  you  all  this  Christmas, 
The  boar's  head  with  mustard. 


Boars  Head  Carols. 


85 


VI. 

The  Boar  is  dead, 
Lo,  here  is  his  head : 

What  man  could  have  done  more 
Than  his  head  off  to  strike, 
Meleager  like, 

And  bring  it  as  I  do  before? 

He  living  spoiled 
Where  good  men  toiled, 

Which  made  kind  Ceres  sorry ; 
But  now,  dead  and  drawn, 
Is  very  good  brawn, 

And  we  have  brought  it  for  ye. 


Christmas  in  Art  &  So7ig. 


Then  set  down  the  swineyard, 
The  foe  to  the  vineyard, 

Let  Bacchus  crown  his  fall ; 
Let  this  boar's  head  and  mustard 
Stand  for  pig,  goose,  and  custard, 

And  so  you  are  welcome  alL 


%  Carol  for  a  SSassail  §0toL 


A  jolly  Wassail  Bowl, 
A  Wassail  of  good  ale, 

Well  fare  the  butler's  soul, 

That  setteth  this  to  sale — 

Our  jolly  Wassail. 

(rood  dame,  here  at  your  door 
Our  Wassail  we  begin, 

We  are  all  maidens  poor, 
We  now  pray  let  us  in, 

With  our  Wassail. 

Our  Wassail  we  do  fill 

With  apples  and  with  spice, 
Then  grant  us  your  good- will, 

To  taste  here  once  or  twice 

Of  our  Wassail. 


A  Carol  for  a  Wassail  Bowl. 


If  any  maidens  be 

Here  dwelling  in  this  house, 
They  kindly  will  agree 

To  take  a  full  carouse 

Of  our  Wassail. 

But  here  they  let  us  stand 
All  freezing  in  the  cold ; 

Good  master,  give  command 
To  enter  and  be  bold. 

With  our  Wassail. 

Much  joy  into  this  hall 

With  us  is  entered  in, 
Our  master  first  of  all, 

We  hope  will  now  begin, 

Of  our  Wassail. 

And  after,  his  good  wife 

Our  spiced  bowl  will  try, — 

The  Lord  prolong  your  life ! 
Good  fortune  we  espy, 

For  our  Wassail. 

Some  bounty  from  your  hands, 
Our  Wassail  to  maintain  : 

We'll  buy  no  house  nor  lands 

With  that  which  we  do  gain, 

With  our  Wassail. 

This  is  our  merry  night 

Of  choosing  King  and  Queen, 
Then  be  it  your  delight 

That  something  may  be  seen 
In  our  Wassail. 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Sons'. 


It  is  a  noble  part 

To  bear  a  liberal  mind ; 
God  bless  our  master's  heart ! 

For  here  we  comfort  find, 

With  our  "Wassail. 

And  now  we  must  be  gone. 

To  seek  out  more  good  cheer ; 

Where  bounty  will  be  shown, 
As  we  have  found  it  here, 

With  our  Wassail. 

Much  joy  betide  them  all, 

Our  prayers  shall  be  still, 

We  hope,  and  ever  shall. 

For  this  your  great  good-will 
To  our  Wassail. 


Come  bring  with  a  noise, 

My  merry,  merry  boys, 
The  Christmas  log  to  the  firing , 

While  my  good  dame,  she 

Bids  ye  all  be  free, 
And  drink  to  your  heart's  desiring. 


Ceremony  for  Christinas  Eve.  gg 

With  the  last  year's  brand 
Light  the  new  block,  and 
For  good  success  in  his  spending, 


On  your  psalteries  play, 
That  sweet  luck  may 
Come  while  the  log  is  a  tending. 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 


Drink  now  the  strong  beer, 
Cut  the  white  loaf  here, 

The  while  the  meat  is  a  shredding 
For  the  rare  mince-pie, 
And  the  plums  stand  by, 

To  fill  the  paste  that's  a  kneading. 


When  Christ  was  born  of  Mary  free, 
In  Bethlehem,  in  that  fair  citie, 
Angels  sang  there  with  mirth  and  glee, 

In  Excelsis  Gloria  ! 

Herdsmen  beheld  these  angels  bright, 
To  them  appearing  with  great  light, 
Who  said,  "  God's  Son  is  born  this  night/' 
In  Excelsis  Gloria! 

This  King  is  come  to  save  mankind, 
As  in  Scripture  truths  we  find, 
Therefore  this  song  have  we  in  mind, 

In  Excelsis  Gloria! 

Then,  dear  Lord,  for  Thy  great  grace, 
Grant  us  the  bliss  to  see  Thy  face, 
That  we  may  sing  to  Thy  solace, 

In  Excelsis  Gloria. ! 


Religious  Poems. 


%  f  pm  011  %  ptibitj  of  mg  Satour. 

(BEN  JONSON.) 

I  sing  the  birth  was  born  to-night, 
The  Author  both  of  life  and  light ; 

The  angels  so  did  sound  it, 
And  like  the  ravished  shepherds  said, 
Who  saw  the  light  and  were  afraid, 

Yet  searched,  and  true  they  found  it 

The  Son  of  God,  tlr  Eternal  King, 
That  did  us  all  salvation  bring, 

And  freed  the  soul  from  danger ; 
He  whom  the  whole  world  could  not  take, 
The  Word,  which  heaven  and  earth  did  make, 

Was  now  laid  in  a  manger. 

The  Father's  wisdom  willed  it  so, 
The  Son's  obedience  knew  no  No, 

Both  wills  were  in  one  stature  ; 
And  as  that  wisdom  had  decreed, 
The  Word  was  now  made  Flesh  indeed, 

And  took  on  him  our  nature. 


Christmas  in  Art  cf  Song. 

What  comfort  by  Him  do  we  win, 
Who  made  Himself  the  price  of  sin, 

To  make  us  heirs  of  Glory ! 
To  see  this  babe,  all  innocence, 
A  martyr  born  in  our  defence : 

Can  man  forget  this  story  ? 


|0r  Cjrristmas  gag. 

(BISHOP  HALL.) 

Immortal  Babe,  who  this  dear  day 
Didst  change  Thine  heaven  for  our  clay, 
And  didst  with  flesh  Thy  godhead  veil, 
Eternal  Son  of  God,  all  hail ! 

Shine,  happy  star ;  ye  angels,  sing 

Glory  on  high  to  Heaven's  King. 

Run,  shepherds,  leave  your  nightly  watch  ; 

See  Heaven  come  down  to  Bethlehem's  cratch. 

Worship,  ye  sages  of  the  East, 

The  King  of  God  in  meanness  dressed. 

O,  blessed  maid  !  smile  and  adore 

The  God  thy  womb  and  arms  have  bore. 

Star,  angels,  shepherds,  and  wild  sages, 
Thou  virgin  glory  of  all  ages, 
Restored  frame  of  Heaven  and  Earth, 
Joy  in  your  dear  Redeemer's  birth  ! 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 


Crista. 

(GEORGE  HERBERT.) 

All  after  pleasures  as  I  rid  one  day, 

My  horse  and  I,  both  tired,  body  and  mind, 
With  full  cry  of  affections,  quite  astray, 

I  took  up  in  the  next  inn  I  could  find ; 
There  when  I  came,  whom  found  I  but  my  dear, 

My  dearest  Lord,  expecting  till  the  grief 
Of  pleasures  brought  me  to  Him,  ready  there 

To  be  all  passengers'  most  sweet  relief? 
O  Thou,  whose  glorious,  yet  contracted  light, 

Wrapt  in  night's  mantle,  stole  into  a  manger ; 
Since  my  dark  soul  and  brutish  is  Thy  right, 

To  man  of  all  beasts  be  not  Thou  a  stranger : 
Furnish  and  deck  my  soul,  that  Thou  mayst  have 
A  better  lodging,  than  a  rack  or  grave. 

The  shepherds  sing  ;  and  shall  I  silent  be  ? 

My  God,  no  hymn  for  Thee  ? 
My  soul's  a  shepherd  too  ;  a  flock  it  feeds 

Of  thoughts,  and  words,  and  deeds. 
The  pasture  is  Thy  words ;  the  streams,  Thy  grace 

Enriching  all  the  place. 
Shepherd  and  flock  shall  sing,  and  all  my  powers 

Outsing  the  daylight  hours. 
Then  we  will  chide  the  sun  for  letting  night 

Take  up  his  place  and  right : 
We  sing  one  common  Lord  ;  wherefore  He  should 

Himself  the  candle  hold. 


Religious  Poems. 


I  will  go  searching,  till  I  find  a  sun 

Shall  stay  till  we  have  done  ; 
A  willing  shiner,  that  shall  shine  as  gladly, 

As  frost-night  suns  look  sadly. 
Then  we  will  sing,  and  shine  all  our  own  day, 

And  one  another  pay : 
His  beams  shall  cheer  my  breast,  and  both  so  twine, 
Till  e'en  his  beams  sing,  and  my  music  shine. 


4Bf  <%ist'a  girtfe  in  an  Inn. 

(JEREMY  TAYLOR.) 

The  blessed  Virgin  travailed  without  pain, 

And  lodged  in  an  inn, 

A  glorious  star  the  sign, 
But  of  a  greater  guest  than  ever  came  that  way, 

For  there  He  lay 
That  is  the  God  of  night  and  day, 
And  over  all  the  pow'rs  of  heav'n  doth  reign. 
It  was  the  time  of  great  Augustus'  tax, 

And  then  He  comes 

That  pays  all  sums, 
Even  the  whole  price  of  lost  humanity  ; 

And  sets  us  free 

From  the  ungodly  emperie 
Of  Sin,  of  Satan,  and  of  Death. 
0,  make  our  hearts,  blest  God,  Thy  lodging-place, 

And  in  our  breast 

Be  pleased  to  rest, 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 


For  Thou  lov'st  temples  better  than  an  inn, 

And  cause  that  Sin 
May  not  profane  the  Deity  within, 
And  sully  o'er  the  ornaments  of  grace. 


Jpm  to  %  Ifattottj. 

(JOHN  MILTON.) 

It  was  the  winter  wild, 

While  the  heaven -born  Child 
All  meanly  wrapt  in  the  rude  manger  lies : 

Nature,  in  awe  to  Him, 

Had  doffed  her  gaudy  trim, 
With  her  great  Master  so  to  sympathize : 
It  was  no  season  then  for  her 
To  wanton  with  the  sun,  her  lusty  paramour. 

Only  with  speeches  fair 

She  woos  the  gentle  air, 
To  hide  her  guilty  front  with  innocent  snow ; 

And  on  her  naked  shame, 

Pollute  with  sinful  blame, 
The  saintly  veil  of  maiden  white  to  throw  ; 
Confounded,  that  her  Maker's  eyes 
Should  look  so  near  upon  her  foul  deformities. 

But  He,  her  fears  to  cease, 
Sent  down  the  meek-eyed  Peace  ; 
She,  crowned  with  olive  green,  came  softly  sliding 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 

Down  through  the  turning  sphere, 

His  ready  harbinger, 
With  turtle  wing  the  amorous  cloud  dividing ; 
And,  waving  wide  her  myrtle  wand, 
She  strikes  a  universal  peace  through  sea  and  land. 

No  war,  or  battle's  sound, 

"Was  heard  the  world  around : 
The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high  up  hung; 

The  hooked  chariot  stood 

Unstained  with  hostile  blood ; 
The  trumpet  spake  not  to  the  armed  throng ; 
And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye, 
As  if  they  surely  knew  their  sovereign  Lord  was  by, 

But  peaceful  was  the  night, 

Wherein  the  Prince  of  Light 
His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth  began  : 

The  winds,  with  wonder  whist, 

Smoothly  the  waters  kissed, 
Whispering  new  joys  to  the  mild  ocea^ 
Who  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave, 
While  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on  the  charaoed  wave. 

The  stars,  with  deep  amaze, 

Stand  fixed  in  steadfast  gaze, 
Bending  one  way  their  precious  influence  ; 

And  will  not  take  their  flight, 

For  all  the  morning  light, 
Or  Lucifer  that  often  warned  them  thence ; 
But  in  their  glimmering  orbs  did  glow, 
Until  their  Lord  Himself  bespake,  and  bid  them  go. 


Religiotis  Poems. 

And,  though  the  shady  gloom 

Had  given  day  her  room, 
The  sun  himself  withheld  his  wonted  speed, 

And  hid  his  head  for  shame, 

As  his  inferior  flame 
The  new  enlightened  world  no  more  should  need : 
He  saw  a  greater  Sun  appear 

Than  his  bright  throne,  or  burning  axletree,  could  bear. 

The  shepherds  on  the  lawn, 

Or  ere  the  point  of  dawn, 
Sat  simply  chatting  in  a  rustic  row  : 

Full  little  thought  they  then, 

That  the  mighty  Pan 
Was  kindly  come  to  live  with  them  below ; 
Perhaps  their  loves,  or  else  their  sheep, 
Was  all  that  did  their  silly  thoughts  so  busy  keep 

When  such  music  sweet 

Their  hearts  and  ears  did  greet, 
As  never  was  by  mortal  finger  strook  ; 

Divinely  warbled  voice 

Answering  the  stringed  noise, 
As  all  their  souls  in  blissful  rapture  took : 
The  air,  such  pleasure  loath  to  lose, 
With  thousand  echoes  still  prolongs  each  heavenly  close. 

Nature,  that  heard  such  sound, 
Beneath  the  hollow  round 
Of  Cynthia's  seat,  the  airy  region  thrilling, 
Now  was  almost  won 
To  think  her  part  was  done, 


IOO 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 


And  that  her  reign  had  here  its  last  fulfilling ; 

She  knew  such  harmony  alone 

Could  hold  all  heaven  and  earth  in  happier  union. 


At  last  surrounds  their  sight 

A  globe  of  circular  light, 
That  with  long  beams  the  shame-faced  night  arrayed  \ 

The  helmed  cherubim, 

And  sworded  seraphim, 
Are  seen  in  glittering  ranks  with  wings  displayed, 
Harping  in  loud  and  solemn  choir, 
With  unexpressive  notes,  to  Heavens  new-born  Heir, 


Such  music  (as  'tis  said) 
Before  was  never  made, 


Religious  Poems. 


101 


But  when  of  old  the  sons  of  morning  sung, 

While  the  Creator  great 

His  constellations  set, 
And  the  well-balanced  world  on  hinges  hun"- : 
And  cast  the  dark  foundations  deep, 
And  bid  the  weltering  waves  their  oozy  channel  keep. 

Ring  out,  ye  crystal  spheres, 

Once  bless  our  human  ears. 
If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so ; 

And  let  your  silver  chime 

Move  in  melodious  time  ; 
And  let  the  bass  of  heaven's  deep  organ  blow  : 
And  with  your  ninefold  harmony. 
Make  up  full  consort  to  the  angelic  symphony. 

For,  if  such  holy  song 

Enwrap  our  fancy  long, 
Time  will  run  back  and  fetch  the  age  of  gold : 

And  speckled  vanity 

Will  sicken  soon  and  die, 
And  leprous  sin  will  melt  from  earthly  mould ; 
And  hell  itself  will  pass  away, 

And  leave  her  dolorous  mansions  to  the  peering  day. 

Yea,  truth  and  justice  then 

Will  down  return  to  men, 
Orbed  in  a  rainbow;  and.  like  glories  wearing, 

Mercy  will  sit  between. 

Throned  in  celestial  sheen, 
With  radiant  feet  the  tissued  clouds  down  steering ; 
And  heaven,  as  at  some  festival, 
Will  open  wide  the  gates  of  her  high  palace  hall. 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 

But  wisest  Fate  says  No, 

This  must  not  jet  be  so  ; 
The  Babe  yet  lies  in  smiling  infancy, 

That  on  the  bitter  cross 

Must  redeem  our  loss  ; 
So  both  Himself  and  us  to  glorify : 
Yet  first,  to  those  enchained  in  sleep, 

The  wakeful  trump  of  doom  must  thunder  through  the  deep. 

With  such  a  horrid  clang- 
As  on  Mount  Sinai  rang 

While  the  red  fire  and  smouldering  clouds  outbrake : 
The  aged  earth,  aghast 
With  terror  of  that  blast, 

Shall  from  the  surface  to  the  centre  shake ; 

When,  at  the  world's  last  session, 

The  dreadful  Judge  in  middle  air  shall  spread  His  throna 

And  then  at  last  our  bliss 

Full  and  perfect  is, 
But  now  begins  ;  for,  from  this  happy  day, 

The  old  dragon  under  ground, 

In  straiter  limits  bound, 
Not  half  so  far  casts  his  usurped  sway  ; 
And,  wrath  to  see  his  kingdom  fail, 
Swinges  the  scaly  horror  of  his  folded  tail. 

The  oracles  are  dumb, 
No  voice  or  hideous  hum 
Runs  through  the  arched  roof  in  words  deceiving. 
Apollo  from  his  shrine 
Can  no  more  divine, 


Religions  Poems. 


With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos  leaving. 

No  nightly  trance,  or  breathed  spell, 

Inspires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the  prophetic  cell. 

The  lonely  mountains  o'er, 

And  the  resounding  shore, 
A  voice  of  weeping  heard  and  loud  lament ; 

From  haunted  spring  and  dale, 

Edged  with  poplar  pale, 
The  parting  genius  is  with  sighing  sent ; 
With  flower-inwoven  tresses  torn, 

The  nymphs  in  twilight  shade  of  tangled  thickets  mourn. 

In  consecrated  earth, 

And  on  the  holy  hearth, 
The  Lars  and  Lemures  moan  with  midnight  plaint ; 

In  urns,  and  altars  round, 

A  drear  and  dying  sound 
Affrights  the  Fl aniens  at  their  service  quaint; 
And  the  chill  marble  seems  to  sweat, 
While  each  peculiar  power  forgoes  his  wonted  seat. 

Peor  and  Baalim 

Forsake  their  temples  dim, 
With  that  twice-battered  god  of  Palestine  ; 

And  mooned  Ashtaroth, 

Heaven's  queen  and  mother  both, 
Now  sits  not  girt  with  tapers'  holy  shine  ; 
The  Libyc  Hammon  shrinks  his  horn, 
In  vain  the  Tyrian  maids  their  wounded  Thammuz  mourn. 

And  sullen  Moloch,  fled, 
Hath  left  in  shadows  dread 


1Q4 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Son^. 


His  burning  idol  all  of  blackest  hue : 

In  vain  with  cymbals'  ring, 

They  call  the  grisly  king, 
In  dismal  dar.ce  about  the  furnace  blue ; 
The  brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast, 
Isis,  and  Orus,  and  the  dog  Anubis,  haste. 
\ 

Nor  is  Osiris  seen 

In  Memphian  grove,  or  green, 
Trampling  the  unshowered  grass  with  lowings  loud  : 

Nor  can  he  be  at  rest 

Within  his  sacred  chest; 
Nought  but  profoundest  hell  can  be  his  shroud , 
In  vain,  with  timbrelled  anthems  dark, 
The  sable-stoled  sorcerers  bear  his  worshipped  ark. 

He  feels  from  Judah's  land 

The  dreaded  Infant's  hand, 
The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky  eyn  ; 

Nor  all  the  gods  beside 

Longer  dare  abide, 
Not  Typhon  huge  ending  in  snaky  twine ; 
Our  Babe,  to  show  His  Godhead  true, 
Can  in  His  swaddling  bands  control  the  damned  crew. 

So,  when  the  Sun  in  bed, 

Curtained  with  cloudy  red, 
Pillows  his  chin  upon  an  orient  wave, 

The  flocking  shadows  pale 

Troop  to  the  infernal  jail, 
Each  fettered  ghost  slips  to  his  several  grave  , 
And  the  yellow-skirted  fays 

Fly  after  the  night-steeds,  leaving  their  moon-loved  maze. 


Religious  Poems. 


But  see,  the  Virgin  blest 

Hath  laid  her  Babe  to  rest ; 
Time  is,  our  tedious  song  should  here  have  ending 

Heaven's  youngest-teemed  star 

Hath  fixed  her  polished  car, 
Her  sleeping  Lord,  with  handmaid  lamp,  attending 
And  all  about  the  courtly  stable 
Bright-harnessed  angels  sit  in  order  serviceable. 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 


%  Christmas  Carol 

(SAMUEL  T.  COLERIDGE.) 

The  shepherds  went  their  hasty  way, 

And  found  the  lowly  stable  shed 
Where  the  virgin  mother  lay : 

And  now  they  checked  their  eager  tread, 
For,  to  the  Babe  that  at  her  bosom  clung, 
A  mother's  song  the  virgin  mother  sung. 

They  told  her  how  a  glorious  light, 

Streaming  from  a  heavenly  throng, 

Around  them  shone,  suspending  night ! 
While,  sweeter  than  a  mother's  song, 

Blest  angels  heralded  the  Saviour's  birth, 

Glory  to  God  on  high !  and  peace  on  earth. 

She  listened  to  the  tale  divine, 

And  closer  still  the  Babe  she  pressed  : 

And  while  she  cried,  The  Babe  is  mine ! 
The  milk  rushed  faster  to  her  breast : 

Joy  rose  within  her,  like  a  summer's  morn ; 

Peace,  peace  on  earth  !  the  Prince  of  Peace  is  born. 

Thou  mother  of  the  Prince  of  Peace, 

Poor,  simple,  and  of  low  estate, 
That  strife  should  vanish,  battle  cease, 

O  why  should  this  thy  soul  elate  ? 
Sweet  music's  loudest  note,  the  poet's  story,  — 
Didst  thou  ne'er  love  to  hear  of  fame  and  glory  ? 


Religious  Poems. 


107 


And  is  not  war  a  youthful  king, 

A  stately  hero  clad  in  mail  ? 
Beneath  his  footsteps  laurels  spring ; 

Him  earth's  majestic  monarchs  hail 
Their  friend,  their  playmate !  and  his  bold  bright  eye 
Compels  the  maiden's  love-confessing  sigh. 

"  Tell  this  in  some  more  courtly  scene, 

To  maids  and  youths  in  robes  of  state  I 
I  am  a  woman  poor  and  mean, 

And,  therefore,  is  my  soul  elate. 
War  is  a  ruffian,  all  with  guilt  defiled, 
That  from  the  aged  father  tears  his  child ! 

"  A  murderous  fiend,  by  fiends  adored, 

He  kills  the  sire  and  starves  the  son ; 
The  husband  kills,  and  from  her  board 

Steals  all  his  widows  toil  had  won ! 
Plunders  God's  world  of  beauty ;  rends  away 
All  safety  from  the  night,  all  comfort  from  the  day. 

"  Then  wisely  is  my  soul  elate, 

That  strife  should  vanish,  battle  cease. 
I'm  poor  and  of  a  low  estate, 

The  mother  of  the  Prince  of  Peace. 
Joy  rises  in  me,  like  a  summer's  morn : 
Peace,  peace  on  earth,  the  Prince  of  Peace  is  born." 


i 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 


(GEORGE  WITHER.) 

As  on  the  night  before  this  happy  morn, 

A  blessed  angel  unto  shepherds  told, 
Where  (in  a  stable)  He  was  poorly  born, 

Whom  nor  the  earth,  nor  heaven  of  heavens  can  hold 
Through  Bethlem  rung 

This  news  at  their  return  ; 
Yea,  angels  sung 

That  God  with  us  was  born ; 
And  they  made  mirth  because  we  should  not  mourn. 

Their  angel-carol  sing  we,  then. 
To  God  on  high  all  glory  be, 
For  peace  on  earth  bestoweth  He, 

And  showeth  favour  unto  men. 

This  favour  Christ  vouchsafed  for  our  sake  ; 

To  buy  us  thrones,  He  in  a  manger  lay ; 
Our  weakness  took,  that  we  His  strength  might  take ; 
And  was  disrobed  that  He  might  us  array  ; 
Our  flesh  He  wore, 

Our  sin  to  wear  away  ; 
Our  curse  He  bore, 

That  we  escape  it  may ; 
And  wept  for  us,  that  we  might  sing  for  aye. 


I  IO 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 


With  angels,  therefore,  sing  again, 
To  God  on  high  all  glor  y  be ; 
For  peace  on  earth  bestoweth  He, 

And  showeth  favour  unto  men. 


%  Cristas  f  pit. 

(ALFRED  DOMMETT.) 

It  was  the  calm  and  silent  night ! 

Seven  hundred  years  and  fifty-three, 
Had  Eome  been  growing  up  to  might, 

And  now  was  queen  of  land  and  sea  I 
No  sound  was  heard  of  clashing  wars — 

Peace  brooded  o'er  the  hushed  domain; 
Apollo,  Pallas,  Jove,  and  Mars, 

Held  undisturbed  their  ancient  reign, 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago ! 

'Twas  in  the  calm  and  silent  night ! 

The  Senator  of  haughty  Rome, 
Impatient  urged  his  chariot's  flight, 

From  lordly  revel  rolling  home  ! 
Triumphal  arches,  gleaming,  swell 

His  breast  with  thoughts  of  boundless  sway  ; 
What  recked  the  Eoman  what  befell 

A  paltry  province  far  away, 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago ! 


Religious  Poems. 


in 


Within  that  province  far  away, 

Went  plodding  home  a  weary  boor ; 
A  streak  of  light  before  him  lay, 

Fallen  through  a  half- shut  stable-door 
Across  his  path.    He  paused,  for  naught 

Told  what  was  going  on  within : 
How  keen  the  stars  !  his  only  thought ; 

The  air  how  calm,  and  cold,  and  thin, 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago ! 

Oh,  strange  indifference  ! — low  and  high 

Drowsed  over  common  joys  and  cares; 
The  earth  was  still,  but  knew  not  why ; 

The  world  was  listening — unawares ! 
How  calm  a  moment  may  precede 

One  that  shall  thrill  the  world  forever ! 
To  that  still  moment  none  would  heed ; 

Man's  doom  was  linked,  no  more  to  sever, 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago ! 

It  is  the  calm  and  silent  night ! 

A  thousand  bells  ring  out,  and  throw 
Their  joyous  peals  abroad,  and  smite 

The  darkness — charmed  and  holy  now ! 
The  night  that  erst  no  shame  had  worn, 

To  it  a  happier  name  is  given ; 
For  in  the  stable  lay,  new-born, 

The  peaceful  Prince  of  earth  and  heaven, 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago ! 


112 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 


Night  is  set  in,  the  stars  their  lamps  are  raising ; 

Each  dewy  flower  hath  closed  its  perfumed  chalice ; 
O'er  the  blue  hills  the  city  lights  are  blazing, 

And  the  gay  cressets  gleam  in  cot  and  palace. 
Down  the  green  sheep-tracks  rest  the  flocks  enfolden, 

Bound  their  still  cotes  the  hinds  their  fires  are  waking, 
While  in  the  homes  of  Bethlehem  lie  holden 

Eyes  all  unconscious  of  the  mystery  breaking. 

Oh,  wonder  of  all  wonders, 

The  hinds  their  watch  are  keeping, 

A  babe  is  in  the  manger — 
Christ  Jesus  there  is  sleeping  ; 

The  oxen  round  Him  lowing, 

The  ass  his  forehead  bowing, 

The  maiden  mother  kneeling, 

While  night  is  o'er  thorn  stealing. 

Soon  shall  a  fire-flood  kindle  up  the  horizon, 

Paling  the  night  stars  in  their  fairy  shining, 
Paling  the  broad  sun  at  his  first  uprising, 

Paling  the  bright  moon  at  his  red  declining. 
Hark,  through  the  opened  lattice  of  Heaven's  portals 

Soundeth — "  To  Grod  be  glory  in  the  highest, 
Peace  be  on  earth  ;  Good- will  to  loving  mortals." 

Peace  to  thee,  Christian,  while  with  joy  thou  criest 

Oh,  wonder  of  all  wonders, 

The  hinds  their  watch  are  keeping, 

A  babe  is  in  the  manger — 
Christ  Jesus  there  is  sleeping. 


Religions  Poems. 


1 1  T 


Cferistaits  Carol 

(FELICIA   HE  MANS.) 

0  LOVELY  voices  of  the  sky, 

That  hymned  the  Saviour's  birth ! 
Are  ye  not  singing  still  on  high, 

Ye  that  sang,  "  Peace  on  earth?" 
To  ns  yet  speak  the  strains, 

Wherewith,  in  days  gone  by, 
Ye  blessed  Syrian  swains, 

O  voices  of  the  sky  ! 

O  clear  and  shining  light,  whose  beams 

That  hour  heaven's  glory  shed 
Around  the  palms,  and  o'er  the  streams, 

And  on  the  shepherd's  head  ; 
Be  near  through  life  and  death, 

As  in  that  holiest  night 
Of  Hope,  and  Joy,  and  Faith, 

0  clear  and  shining  light ! 

0  star  which  led  to  Him,  whose  love 

Brought  down  man's  ransom  free ; 
Where  art  thou  ? — 'midst  the  hosts  above, 

May  we  still  gaze  on  thee  ? — 
In  heaven  thou  art  not  set ; 

Thy  rays  earth  might  not  dim  ; — 
Send  them  to  guide  us  yet ! 

O  star  which  led  to  Him  ! 


Poems  on  Winter. 


When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall, 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail, 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 

And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail ; 


Poems  on  Winter. 


When  blood  is  nipped,  and  ways  be  foul, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

To-whoo ; 
Tu-whit,  to-whoo,  a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel*  the  pot. 

When  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow, 

And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw, 

And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow, 

And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw ; 

When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl. 

Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 
To-whoo ; 

Tu-whit,  to-whoo,  a  merry  note, 

While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

Shakespeare. 

*  Cool. 


n6 


Christmas  in  Art  cf  Song. 


Next  came  the  chill  December : 

Yet  he,  through  merry  feasting  which  he  made, 
And  great  bonfires,  did  not  the  cold  remember ; 

His  Saviour's  birth  his  mind  so  much  did  glad : 

Upon  a  shaggy -bearded  goat  he  rode, 
The  same  wherewith  Dan  Jove  in  tender  years, 

They  say,  was  nourished  by  th'  Icean  maid ; 
And  in  his  hand  a  broad  deep  bowl  he  bears, 
Of  which  he  freely  drinks  an  health  to  all  his  peers. 

Lastly,  came  Winter,  clothed  all  in  frieze, 

Chattering  his  teeth  for  cold  that  did  him  chill ; 
Whilst  on  his  hoary  beard  his  breath  did  freeze, 

And  the  dull  drops,  that  from  his  purpled  bill, 

As  from  a  limbeck,  did  adown  distil : 
In  his  right  hand  a  tipped  staff  he  held, 

With  which  his  feeble  steps  he  stayed  still ; 
For  he  was  faint  with  cold,  and  weak  with  eld, 
That  scarce  his  loosed  limbs  he  able  was  to  wield 

Edmund  Spenser. 


Far  from  the  track,  and  blest  abode  of  man ; 
While  round  him  night  resistless  closes  fast, 
And  every  tempest,  howling  o'er  his  head, 
Benders  the  savage  wilderness  more  wild. 
*       *       *       *       *       Down  he  sinks 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  the  shapeless  drift, 
Thinking  o'er  all  the  bitterness  of  death, 
Mix'd  with  the  tender  anguish  nature  shoots 
Through  the  wrung  bosom  of  the  dying  man. 
******** 


Poems  on  Winter. 


Nor  wife,  nor  children,  more  shall  he  behold, 
Nor  friends,  nor  sacred  home.    On  every  nerve 
The  deadly  winter  seizes  ;  shuts  up  sense  ; 
And,  o'er  his  inmost  vitals  creeping  cold, 
Lays  him  along  the  snows  a  stiffened  corse — 
Stretched  out,  and  bleaching  in  the  northern  blast. 

Ah !  little  think  the  gay  licentious  proud, 
Whom  pleasure,  power,  and  affluence,  surround ; 
They,  who  their  thoughtless  hours  in  giddy  mirth, 
And  wanton,  often  cruel,  riot  waste ; 
Ah !  little  think  they,  while  they  dance  along, 
How  many  feel,  this  very  moment,  death, 
And  all  the  sad  variety  of  pain. 

Thomson. 


u8  Christmas  in  Art  &  Song'. 

0  winter,  ruler  of  the  inverted  year, 

Thy  scattered  hair  with  sleet  like  ashes  rilled, 

Thy  breath  congealed  upon  thy  lips,  thy  cheeks 

Fringed  with  a  beard  made  white  with  other  snows 

Than  those  of  age,  thy  forehead  wrapped  in  clouds, 

A  leafless  branch  thy  sceptre,  and  thy  throne 

A  sliding  car,  indebted  to  no  wheels, 

But  urged  by  storms  along  its  slippery  way, 

1  love  thee,  all  unlovely  as  thou  seem'st, 

And  dreaded  as  thou  art !    Thou  hold'st  the  sun 
A  prisoner  in  the  yet  undawning  east, 
Shortening  his  journey  between  morn  and  noon, 
And  hurrying  him,  impatient  of  his  stay, 
Down  to  the  rosy  west ;  but  kindly  still 
Compensating  his  loss  with  added  hours 
Of  social  converse  and  instructive  ease, 
And  gathering,  at  short  notice,  in  one  group, 
The  family  dispersed,  and  fixing  thought, 
Not  less  dispersed  by  daylight  and  its  cares. 
I  crown  thee  king  of  intimate  delights, 
Fireside  enjoyments,  homeborn  happiness, 
And  all  the  comforts  that  the  lowly  roof 
Of  undisturbed  retirement,  and  the  hours 
Of  long  uninterrupted  evening  know. 

William  Cowper. 


A  wrinkled,  crabbed  man  they  picture  thee, 
Old  Winter,  with  a  rugged  beard  as  gray 

As  the  long  moss  upon  the  apple-tree ; 

Blue  lipt,  an  ice-drop  at  thy  sharp  blue  nose ; 
Close  muffled  up,  and  on  thy  dreary  way, 


The  Christmas  Tree. 


Plodding  alone  through  sleet  and  drifting  snows. 

They  should  have  drawn  thee  by  the  high-heapt  hearth, 

Old  Winter !  seated  in  thy  great  arm-chair, 
Watching  the  children  at  their  Christmas  mirth, 

Or  circled  by  them,  as  thy  lips  declare 
Some  merry  jest,  or  tale  of  murder  dire, 

Or  troubled  spirit  that  disturbs  the  night, 
Pausing  at  times  to  rouse  the  mouldering  fire, 
Or  taste  the  old  October  brown  and  bright. 

Robert  Southey. 


A  merry,  merry  Christmas  I 
To  crown  the  closing  year  ; 
.  Peace  and  good-will  to  mortals, 
And  words  of  holy  cheer ! 

What  though,  the  dreary  landscape 
Be  robed  in  drifting  snow, 

If  on  the  social  hearthstone 
The  Christmas  fire  may  glow? 

What  though  the  wind  at  evening 
Blow  harsh  o'er  land  and  sea, 

If  eager  hands  and  joyful 

Light  up  the  Christmas  Tree? 

Soft  falls  its  pleasing  lustre 
Upon  the  group  around, — 


A  Christmas  Carol. 


I  2  I 


On  merry  laughing  childhood, 
And  age  with  glory  crowned. 

"With  eyes  of  rapture  beaming, 

Each  little  guest  receives 
Affection's  token  gleaming 

From  out  the  shining  leaves. 

The  grand- dame  greets  her  children, 
And  smiles  their  joy  to  see, 

On  Christmas  eves  of  olden 
So  eager  once  was  she. 

With  peace  serene  and  beautiful 
Her  waning  life  shall  shine, 

As  Christmas  crowns  the  twelvemonths 
With  light  and  joy  divine. 


From  the  Noei  Bourguignon  de  Gui  Barozai. 
(H.  W.  LONGFELLOW.) 

I  HEAR  along  our  street 
Pass  the  minstrel  throngs ; 
Hark !  they  play  so  sweet, 
On  their  hautboys,  Christmas  songs ! 

Let  us  by  the  fire 

Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire ! 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 

In  December  ring 
Every  day  the  chimes ; 
Loud  the  gleemen  sing 
In  the  streets  their  merry  rhymes. 
Let  us  by  the  fire,  etc. 

Shepherds  at  the  grange, 
Where  the  Babe  was  born, 
Sang,  with  many  a  change, 
Christmas  carols  until  morn. 
Let  us  by  the  fire,  etc. 

These  good  people  sang 
Songs  devout  and  sweet ; 
While  the  rafters  rang, 
There  they  stood  with  freezing  feet. 
Let  us  by  the  fire,  etc. 

Nuns  in  frigid  cells 
At  this  holy  tide, 
For  want  of  something  else, 
Christmas  songs  at  times  have  tried. 
Let  us  by  the  fire,  etc. 

Washer-women  old 
To  the  sound  they  beat, 
Sing  by  rivers  cold, 
With  uncovered  heads  and  feet. 
Let  us  by  the  fire,  etc, 


Who  by  the  fireside  stands 
Stamps  his  feet  and  sings ; 


Church  Bells. 

But  he  who  blows  his  hands 
Not  so  gay  a  carol  brings. 
Let  us  by  the  fire,  etc. 


(JOHN  KEBLE.) 

Wake  me  to-night,  my  mother  dear 
That  I  may  hear 

The  Christmas  Bells,  so  soft  and  clear, 
To  high  and  low  glad  tidings  tell, 
How  God  the  Father  loved  us  well ; 
How  God  the  Eternal  Son 
Came  to  undo  what  we  had  done ; 
How  God  the  Paraclete, 

Who  in  the  chaste  womb  formed  the  Babe  so  sweet, 
In  power  and  glory  came,  the  birth  to  aid  and  greet. 

Wake  me,  that  I  the  twelvemonth  long 
May  bear  the  song 

About  with  me  in  the  world's  throng ; 

That  treasured  joys  of  Christmas  tide 

May  with  mine  hour  of  gloom  abide ; 

The  Christmas  Carol  ring 

Deep  in  my  heart,  when  I  would  sing ; 

Each  of  the  twelve  good  days 

Its  earnest  yield  of  duteous  love  and  praise, 

Ensuring  happy  months,  and  hallowing  common  ways. 


124 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Son?. 


"Wake  me  again,,  my  mother  dear, 

That  I  may  hear 

The  peal  of  the  departing  year. 

0  well  I  love,  the  step  of  Time 

Should  move  to  that  familiar  chime : 

Fair  fall  the  tones  that  steep 

The  Old  Year  in  the  dews  of  sleep, 

The  New  guide  softly  in 

With  hopes  to  sweet,  sad  memories  akin ! 

Long  may  that  soothing  cadence  ear,  heart,  conscience  win. 


%  fisit  torn  St  Ptjprlas. 

(CLEMENT    C.  MOORE.) 

'TWAS  the  night  before  Christmas,  when  all  through  the  house 

Not  a  creature  was  stirring,  not  even  a  mouse ; 

The  stockings  were  hung  by  the  chimney  with  care, 

In  hopes  that  St.  Nicholas  soon  would  be  there ; 

The  children  were  nestled  all  snug  in  their  beds, 

While  visions  of  sugar-plums  danced  in  their  heads ; 

And  mamma  in  her  kerchief,  and  I  in  my  cap, 

Had  just  settled  our  brains  for  a  long  winter's  nap — 

When  out  on  the  lawn  there  rose  such  a  clatter, 

I  sprang  from  my  bed  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 

Away  to  the  window  I  flew  like  a  flash, 

Tore  open  the  shutters  and  threw  up  the  sash. 

The  moon,  on  the  breast  of  the  new-fallen  snow, 

Gave  a  lustre  of  mid-day  to  objects  below; 

When,  what  to  my  wondering  eyes  should  appear, 

But  a  miniature  sleigh,  and  eight  tiny  rein-deer, 


A   Visit  from  St.  Nicholas. 


125 


With  a  little  old  driver,  so  lively  and  quick, 

I  knew  in  a  moment  it  must  be  St.  Nick. 

More  rapid  than  eagles  his  coursers  they  came, 

And  he  whistled,  and  shouted,  and  called  them  by  name ; 

"  Now,  Dasher !  now,  Dancer  !  now,  Prancer  and  Vixen ! 

On !  Comet,  on  I  Cupid,  on !  Dunder  and  Blitzen — 

To  the  top  of  the  porch,  to  the  top  of  the  wall ! 

Now,  dash  away,  dash  away,  dash  away  all  I"  / 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Sono-. 

As  dry  leaves  that  before  the  wild  hurricane  fly, 

When  they  meet  with  an  obstacle,  mount  to  the  sky, 

So,  up  to  the  house-top  the  coursers  they  flew, 

With  a  sleigh  full  of  toys — and  St.  Nicholas  too. 

And  then  in  a  twinkling  I  heard  on  the  roof, 

The  prancing  and  pawing  of  each  little  hoof. 

As  I  drew  in  my  head,  and  was  turning  around, 

Down  the  chimney  St.  Nicholas  came  with  a  bound. 

lie  was  dressed  all  in  fur  from  his  head  to  his  foot, 

And  his  clothes  were  all  tarnished  with  ashes  and  soot ; 

A  bundle  of  toys  he  had  flung  on  his  back, 

And  he  looked  like  a  peddler  just  opening  his  pack. 

His  eyes  how  they  twinkled !  his  dimples  how  merry ! 

His  cheeks  were  like  roses,  his  nose  like  a  cherry ; 

His  droll  little  mouth  was  drawn  up  like  a  bow, 

And  the  beard  on  his  chin  was  as  white  as  the  snow ; 

The  stump  of  a  pipe  he  held  tight  in  his  teeth, 

And  the  smoke,  it  encircled  his  head  like  a  wreath. 

He  had  a  broad  face,  and  a  little  round  belly, 

That  shook  when  he  laughed,  like  a  bowl  full  of  jelly. 

He  was  chubby  and  plump — a  right  jolly  old  elf; 

And  I  laughed  when  I  saw  him,  in  spite  of  myself. 

A  wink  of  his  eye,  and  a  twist  of  his  head, 

Soon  gave  me  to  know  I  had  nothing  to  dread. 

He  spoke  not  a  word,  but  went  straight  to  his  work, 

And  filled  all  the  stockings  ;  then  turned  with  a  jerk, 

And  laying  his  finger  aside  of  his  nose, 

And  giving  a  nod,  up  the  chimney  he  rose. 

He  sprang  to  his  sleigh,  to  his  team  gave  a  whistle, 

And  away  they  all  flew  like  the  down  of  a  thistle  ; 

But  I  heard  him  exclaim,  ere  he  drove  out  of  sight, 

"Merry  Christmas  to  all.  and  to  all  a  good-night 


The  Death  of  the  Old  Year. 


127 


ALFRED  TENNYSON.) 

Full  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow, 

And  the  winter  winds  are  wearily  sighing : 
Toll  ye  the  church-bell  sad  and  slow, 
And  tread  softly,  and  speak  low, 
For  the  Old  Year  lies  a-dying. 
Old  Year,  you  must  not  die ; 
You  came  to  us  so  readily, 
You  lived  with  us  so  steadily, 
Old  Year,  you  shall  not  die. 

He  lieth  still :  he  doth  not  move : 

He  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 
He  hath  no  other  life  above. 
He  gave  me  a  friend,  and  a  true,  true  love, 
And  the  New  Year  will  take  'em  away. 
Old  Year,  you  must  not  go ; 
So  long  as  you  have  been  with  us, 
Such  joy  as  you  have  seen  with  us, 
Old  Year,  you  shall  not  go. 

He  frothed  his  bumpers  to  the  brim ; 

A  jollier  year  we  shall  not  see. 
But  though  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim, 
And  though  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 
He  was  a  friend  to  me. 

Old  Year,  you  shall  not  die ; 
We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you. 
I've  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you, 
Old  Year,  if  you  must  die. 


Christmas  in  Art  &  Song. 

He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest, 

But  all  his  merry  quips  are  o'er. 
To  see  him  die,  across  the  waste 
His  son  and  heir  doth  ride  post  haste, 
But  he'll  be  dead  before. 
Every  one  for  his  own. 
The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  my  friend, 
And  the  New  Year  blithe  and  bold,  my  friend, 
Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 

How  hard  he  breathes !  over  the  snow 
I  heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 
The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro : 
The  cricket  chirps  :  the  light  burns  low  : 
'Tis  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 

Shake  hands,  before  you  die. 
Old  Year,  we'll  dearly  rue  for  you : 
What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you  ? 
Speak  out  before  you  die. 

His  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin. 

Alack,  our  friend  is  gone  ! 
Close  up  his  eyes  :  tie  up  his  chin  : 
Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 
That  standeth  there  alone, 
And  waiteth  at  the  door. 
There's  a  new  foot  on  the  floor,  my  friend, 
And  a  new  face  at  the  door,  my  friend, 
A  new  face  at  the  door. 


